The Goblin Wars Part Two: Death of a King

by Stuart Thaman

  The Goblin Wars

  Part Two: Death of a King

  Copyright © 2014, 2016 by Stuart Thaman

  Cover design by Will Olthouse

  www.unsilentwill.com

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Orbit, and all the other dogs waiting patiently in heaven...

  Title Page

  Map of Talonrend

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  “PULL YOUR SCARF around, Seamus,” an elderly woman called into the brisk night air. Wind whipped around her words and stole her breath with a cloud of fog. Seamus, a tall and hulking brute of a man, looked back at her and gave a sigh, reluctantly tightening the knitted cloth about his neck.

  “Hundreds o’ other folk around here for you to yell at, you old coot,” Seamus retorted. The pair of chilled farmers marched near the front of the refugee column heading west, leaving Terror’s Lament and the once-safe city of Talonrend far behind. “Pull your own damn scarf tighter…” Seamus mumbled to himself, far out of his mother’s hearing.

  “How much longer do you think it will take, Uncle Seamus?” a red-haired, freckled boy asked excitedly. The boy, affectionately called ‘Squirt’ by everyone in the column, had been tagging along with Seamus and his mother for miles. Most of the time, no one paid the lad much attention. All he did was eat their food and he was too young to help carry supplies.

  “Do you know how far it is from Talonrend,” Seamus spat as he said the name of his former home, trying to purge the awful flavor from his mouth, “to the Green City?” He reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair and pushed him in the back, urging him to leave.

  “How far is it, Uncle Seamus?” The boy continued to prod.

  “I’m not your uncle!” Seamus cajoled, using his heavy hands to push the boy away. “Stop calling me that.” In his heart, Seamus knew that every member of the column was as much the boy’s family as his blood relatives. Squirt had been a street urchin living on scraps without a family. He called all the older refugees his aunt or uncle.

  “How far is it to the Green City?” Squirt demanded again, undeterred. “Just tell me how far!”

  “I’m not sure anyone here knows that for certain, boy,” Seamus told him honestly. “But by my reckoning, if you can’t see the city, we aren’t there yet.” The middle-aged farmer had no idea how far he and the boy would have to walk and everyone in the column just hoped they were moving in the right direction. Food was already becoming scarce and the massive column frightened away all of the game.

  “Will we make it there before it snows?” Squirt asked, hopping up and down with the limitless energy afforded him by youth.

  “Squirt, I hope we make it there before winter really sets in, but if I tell you the truth…” Seamus’ voice trailed off. He didn’t want to frighten the boy.

  “Tell me!” Squirt begged, tugging on the big man’s hairy arm.

  Seamus let out a long sigh and looked to his mother ten paces behind him, trying in vain to keep her teeth from chattering. “We will probably have to make camp somewhere before the snows pile up and then we will have to wait it out. If we are lucky, we will find enough deer and rabbit to last us through the winter. Then, when the snows melt and the wagons can continue, we will keep moving west and make it to the Green City by summer.”

  Squirt’s eyes grew big and he hesitated for a second before bounding back to Seamus’ side. “I didn’t know it would take that long,” he said with a voice full of wonder and awe.

  “Yes,” Seamus said after he cleared his throat. “I just hope the Green City actually exists. Some of the ancient folk say they have been there and seen it, but once a mind has reached a certain age, you just can’t trust it anymore.” Seamus gave a sly smirk over his shoulder to his mother and Squirt ran off to pester someone else.

  Ever since Seamus was as young as Squirt, he had felt a calling somewhere deep in his mind. He had never been particularly religious, but he knew he was destined by Vrysinoch for something great. When the goblins had arrived outside Terror’s Lament, Seamus had left his farm and volunteered for the militia. His particular group didn’t see any action, but Seamus wasn’t concerned.

  When people started leaving Talonrend after the battle, Seamus knew he had to go with them. Without much consideration, he had left everything behind and set out with thousands of other refugees to discover his purpose in life.

  IN THE DARK, damp dungeon beneath the keep of Talonrend, Gravlox and Vorst stared into the calm darkness with nothing but silence passing between them. A human jailer sat at a rickety table and fought off sleep with his head leaning against the stone. Two layers of iron bars separated Gravlox from Vorst and only one other inmate kept them company.

  A second guard, dressed impeccably and striding with a tall, proud gait, descended the spiral staircase and woke the snoozing man with a wave of his bright torch. The human prisoner, a one-armed man who refused to wear any of his meager clothing, beat an old wooden bowl against the bars of his cell at the new guard.

  “Wake up now,” the clean cut human said with a polite but firm tone. He shook the weary jailer out of his seat and pointed him toward the staircase. “Apollonius has need of you,” he stated before turning toward the cells.

  “Apollonius is a coward!” the one-armed man shouted through a mouth of rotted teeth. He slammed the wooden bowl against the bars of his cell as he howled.

  “How would you know, old man?” The new guard fired back with a smirk. “You’ve been in that cell longer than Apollonius has been alive.” The guard dismissed him w
ith a wave and sauntered to the two goblin holding cells.

  With one hand, the man brushed a cobweb out of his path, careful to not let any fall on his finely pressed jacket. Gravlox noticed his other hand wandering close to the shinning pommel of his sword.

  “I’ve heard that Talonrend lives because of you two,” the guard said quietly to the goblin pair. With her hands gripping the rusted iron bars, she gazed up at the tall human and searched his face for compassion.

  “We found Gideon, the paladin,” Vorst responded. “He saved your city.” She shook her head and moved away from the bars.

  “Gideon insists that you two saved us all,” the guard responded flatly. The one-armed man howled and danced about his cell wildly, throwing the wooden bowl against the walls.

  “Do you believe him?” Vorst dared to ask. She sat on the floor at the back of her tiny cell and tried to push the fear out of her voice.

  “I don’t know what to believe…” the human finally said. His eyes left the goblins but his hand remained firmly planted on the pommel of his weapon. Pointing at Gravlox, he let a hint of a smile creep to his face. “I saw him on the field against Jan,” he whispered with obvious wonder. “He is a legend.”

  “I try to teach Gravlox, but he only knows a few of your words,” Vorst told the human quickly. The last time they were questioned, a jailer attempted to kill Gravlox because he didn’t respond.

  “What is he?” the guard asked, reaching a hand through the metal bars of Gravlox’s cell.

  “Shaman,” Gravlox told the man. He pointed a pale finger to his grimy chest and tried to form a sentence. “I…shaman,” he finally managed.

  “A shaman,” the man repeated quietly. “Is that a priest where you live?” The guard turned to Vorst and nervously scratched the palm of his hand against the pommel of his sword.

  “What is priest?” Vorst inquired. “Gravlox is a shaman, powerful shaman.”

  “I saw him use magic on the battlefield,” the man explained and gestured with his hands. “When Jan attacked, I saw him protect you with magic. Our priests do that sometimes, by the power of Vrysinoch. Protection and healing can only come from our god.”

  Vorst shook her head and tried to piece together the meaning of what she heard. The gaps in her understanding of the human language made conversation difficult. “Healing and protection come from the ground,” she told the man. “Shaman draw energy from the world! Everything is magic.” She motioned with her hands to everything around her, turning circles in the small cell.

  Gravlox, standing as close to his companion as the dungeon allowed, reached through the iron bars and touched Vorst’s cell. The man, leaning casually against the bars, could feel Gravlox’s magic. The shaman summoned a small burst of energy into his fingertips and sent the magical signal hurtling through the rusted iron.

  The man’s eyes grew wide and he tried to take a step back, but his hand wouldn’t budge from the metal. Gravlox smiled and relished the moment, sending more and more magic through the cell and into the human, forcing images of the battlefield to dance through the guard’s head. Gravlox showed him the moment when he summoned a great blast of magic to destroy the sewer tunnel beneath Reikall and the man whimpered in terror.

  “Stop it, Grav!” Vorst yelled at him in her native language. “Don’t hurt him.”

  Gravlox retracted his hand from the cell bar and returned to his ragged pile of filth to sit. The one-armed man, watching the commotion, hurled his wooden bowl out of his cell and knocked the guard squarely on the shoulder.

  With fear taking hold of the soldier, the man drew his sword and backed away, nearly tripping on the uneven stone floor. “No!” Vorst shouted at Gravlox, “Don’t hurt him!”

  The guard looked around the dark dungeon once and ran for the staircase.

  “I can get us out of here, Vorst,” Gravlox said once the guard was gone. The one-armed man flailed about gleefully in a pile of his own filth, singing a children’s song loudly to himself.

  “I know you can, Grav, but where would we go? What would we do?” She hung her head and leaned against the bars. “We can’t go back to the mountain.”

  “Wouldn’t anywhere be better than this?” Gravlox said with his hands around the cell bars to emphasize his point. “I hate it here.”

  Vorst let out a long, high-pitched sigh. “We have to trust in the paladin,” she offered after a moment. “Gideon can get us out. If we break out of here, the humans will never trust us.”

  Gravlox reached for her hand and held it tightly, clinging to the comfort of her grip, and considered everything they had been through together. “Is this where you want to live?” he asked Vorst.

  “I…” Vorst searched her mind for the right answer. “I don’t know,” she finally replied. “We can’t go back to the mountain. If the humans will accept us, why not stay with them?”

  “Will they ever accept us?” Gravlox’s voice was full of pain and longing. The one-armed man jumped from foot to foot, stomping clouds of muck and grime into the stagnant air around his cell.

  “As long as we have each other, does it matter?” Vorst whispered, barely audible. She squeezed his hand and tried to settle his mind but knew that nothing she could do would bring him comfort.

  “I don’t want to live my life always looking over my shoulder. I did enough of that in Kanebullar Mountain. Are there any other goblins out there? Are there any more goblins like us?” Gravlox stared at the roughly cut stone walls and tried to imagine a life in the human city.

  “I don’t think so, Grav. The orcs in the snowy mountain ranges look similar to us, but they aren’t goblins. I’ve never heard of any other groups of our kind.”

  Gravlox smirked. “The orcs and other creatures of the northern mountains would sooner eat us than live with us.” The shaman walked away from the rusted bars and paced the area of his small cell. “Perhaps it would be best for us to live here with these giants.”

  A long silence passed between the goblins. The torch left hanging on the wall by the guard flickered and smoked, making the air heavy and hard to breathe. The one-armed man slouched down with his back against the metal bars and hummed a tuneless song while he counted his toes.

  “Vorst…” Gravlox whispered, trying to find his courage. “Can you still feel her?” he asked gently. “Can you feel Lady Scrapple?”

  Vorst slumped and closed her eyes. “I don’t think so,” she murmured without any confidence. “At least, it isn’t like it was before. She doesn’t control me, Gravlox, if that’s what you are asking.”

  “YOU ARE GETTING worse, my liege,” Gideon stated in an even tone. The prince was pale, almost lifeless, and looked weak in both body and soul as he struggled to stay awake. The paladin hated his daily visits to Castle Talon.

  “I’m sorry,” Herod breathed through spikes of pain that wracked his entire body. “I’m sorry, Gideon. What am I to do? What will become of Talonrend after my death?”

  A long silence passed between them. Gideon squeezed the prince’s hand but Herod was too weak to return the gesture. Two soldiers stood to either side of the prince’s bed with large paper fans to keep the air circulating around the chamber. Gideon stole a glance at one of the soldiers who nodded grimly in response. “Has anyone been asking about the prince?” he questioned one of the guards.

  “They did the first day, sir, but we turned them away,” the man replied. He moved the fan back and forth methodically, never taking his eyes from Herod’s body.

  “Good. If word gets out…” Gideon’s voice trailed off and he averted his eyes.

  “Understood,” the guard confirmed. “Apollonius is the only one who hears our reports.”

  “Very well,” Gideon said. “The city is falling apart around us…” he whispered.

  “Sir,” the other guard asked Gideon tentatively. “How many people have left the city?”

  Gideon turned to him and shook his head. Citizens had been fleeing by the hundreds since the battle, and none of the
incentives offered by the monarchy had done anything to stem the tide.

  “Over half of the city’s population is on the road now,” the paladin remarked with sorrow coating his once powerful voice. “From what I’ve heard, the villages along the Clawflow are ghost towns. The goblin retreat burned almost everything. Cobblestreet is nothing but a pile of ashes and the same is true of the other settlements between here and the mountains.”

  “Vrysinoch save us…” one of the guards muttered under his breath. “How will we make it through winter?”

  Gideon stood and took a step back from the dying prince. “Our stores should last us through the winter, even with the last harvest being burned by the goblins and trampled by the refugees.” He tried to work a bit of optimism into his voice, but the sight of Herod’s frail body made such confidence impossible. “We could probably withstand a full year without another harvest, but any more than that and we will die.”

  Herod stirred under the white silk sheets that covered his bed. “When they come again…” he coughed and sputtered. “The siege will… end us…”

  “I fear that our prince speaks the truth,” Gideon said as he turned for the magical door that led to the rest of the castle. “The goblin army can sustain a siege for months, if not years. Without any assistance from the outside, we will die behind our walls long before they want for food.”

  “How many Templars remain in my city, Gideon?” Herod asked without turning his head or opening his eyes.

  “All of them, my liege,” Gideon responded. “Most of the militia travels west with the refugees, but the Templars have chosen to stay, down to a man. Do you have orders for them, sir?”

  Herod chewed his bottom lip, thinking deeply. “If I am still alive when the goblin horde returns,” he coughed into the silk sheets, “slit my throat and evacuate the city. Fight them for as long as you can from the walls, and then run. Take the Templars and try to find the refugees on the road. Protect the people and make it to the Green City.”

  Gideon nodded solemnly. “And if Vrysinoch takes you before the siege?”